


Slam

by OrangePatrick



Series: Old Stuff From Tumblr (Unrelated) [10]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of Suicide Attempts, Pining, Slam Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 17:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6248257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangePatrick/pseuds/OrangePatrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say the best way to die is falling, and I guess that's pretty true: I can't think of a better way to kill myself than falling in love with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. phase i

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: content warning: mentions of suicide/attempts, mentions of dumb stereotypes, glader slang, and the mental image of sweaty thomas playing soccer  
> also 100% un-beta'ed & I think I changed tenses at some point because I’m shit

“What the shuck is a poetry slam?” Gally snorts, pointing at the flyer.

The group of teenage boys is clustered in the hallway, waiting for some of their more vital members to return from soccer practice.

Leaning against the wall a few feet away, Newt rolls his eyes.

“Sounds like getting beaten up by hipsters,” Fry muses.

Newt rolls his eyes harder.

“Nah, you shank, hipsters listen to poetry, they don’t write it. That’s the emo kids.”

“Good God,” Newt finally groans, rolling his eyes a third time. “You’re all bloody idiots.”

“What’re they being idiots about this time?”

All the boys look over at the sound of Thomas’s voice. The brunet, Minho, and Aris were heading their way, soccer bags slung over their shoulders and shin guards still loosely strapped to their legs. Thomas’s hair is damp with sweat from two hours of running through humid April air, skin glistening. Newt forces himself to look Thomas in the eyes and shrugs. “Just the usual. Being ignorant, enforcing stupid stereotypes, making me roll my eyes so hard they’re about to fall out of my buggin’ head.”

“So nothing too different,” Minho teases, and Winston swats him with a notebook. Just like that, the atmosphere is charged with teenage boy antics, and the group heads out of the school and starts walking towards Alby’s house for standard Friday-night weekend-kick-off group sleepover.

The dynamics of their group are very simple: for all the little arguments that they get into individually, none of them actually hold serious grudges for more than a week and a half or two. Friday nights are spent at Alby’s. During the week, they have scattered classes with each other, and some have lunch together, so they sit with each other when they can. There are some distinct cliques inside the group, but that’s purely based on various interests and how often those people get to hang out. The only time all twenty or so boys actually all hang out as one is after school on Fridays. By Saturday afternoon, they’re all split up again. So, yeah, maybe they aren’t the tightest friend group, but it’s hard to be with so many members. What matters is that they all know each other, all are on good terms, all have each other’s backs. They’re all support.

A lot of the boys are on one of the school’s soccer teams– varsity practice is every night, which is why the boys all have to wait for Thomas, Minho, and Aris before getting to destroy Alby’s house. Newt used to play, but…

He doesn’t wanna think about it.

“So,” Thomas says, bumping shoulders with the Brit. “What was Gally being dumb about?”

“Um.” Newt blushes. He can’t help it. He’s a little embarrassed about the issue, to be honest. (And, despite how long they’ve known each other– a year and a half– he still gets flustered when Thomas is this close. Which is dumb, because they spend every waking second together) “They were looking at the, uh, the poster for the Poetry Slam in a couple weeks.”

Thomas brightens. “You’re doing it, right?”

The other boys stop to listen when they hear that. “Newt? Poetry?”

“I don’t think he’s that eloquent.”

“Is that really what he said? I can’t tell with that accent.”

They’re all teasing him, and that’s exactly the reason why Newt decides right then and there, “Yes, actually. I am.”

The rest of the walk is silent, but as soon as they cross the threshold of Alby’s apartment building, it vanishes. They spend a couple hours with a video game tourney– winner takes on the next opponent– and order pizza. Just like every Friday night. Eventually, Newt leads the way up the fire escapes to the rooftops, where the twenty boys listen to music and relax. Clint brought a pack of beer, and it’s really just enough for each to have a plastic cup, but it still seems to affect the atmosphere to have alcohol there. Thomas joins Newt sitting on the edge, and Minho sits on his other side.

“Scares me to see you so close to the edge,” Thomas says, taking a sip from his cup.

“This building isn’t tall enough to do real damage,” Newt answers quietly, watching his swinging feet.

“You’re kidding, right?” Minho says incredulously. “I’d say it definitely did real damage. To all of us, Newt.”

“You aren’t allowed to leave us yet,” Thomas adds.

Newt doesn’t wanna talk about it, but he knows they’re both right. “Thanks.”

At approximately three A.M., the group migrates back into the apartment, where they sprawl out into sleeping areas that were established a long time ago.

Newt had the couch originally, but then Thomas stole it, and then they came to a terse agreement to share it, and it was all fine and dandy until the British boy developed that stupid crush and Thomas is such a cuddler.

Newt presses his face into Thomas’s neck, breathing him in.

“You’re my best friend,” Thomas says.

“I know.” After a pause, “You say weird stuff sometimes.”

Thomas laughs a little, and then they’re quiet again.

“Hey, Newt?”

“Yeah?”

“How many times ha– how many hospital bracelets do you have?”

Newt pretends to be asleep, but when the sun rises, he traces a ‘4’ onto Thomas’s collarbone. The brunet just sleepily laces their fingers, too groggy to understand.


	2. phase ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is inspired by my own experiences as a performance poet & participation in poetry slams. they’re super fun & I encourage you all to watch one sometime or even just go to an open mic night sometime

The notebook is almost falling apart. Each page only has a few lines, but he’s been flipping back and forth and trying to assemble them into everything he wants to say that the pages are crooked and scrunched at the edges.

Newt only has a few more days. He regrets ever agreeing to this.

The day before the Slam, he’s wired and ready to go, memorizing every roll of every phrase. He can’t mess this up. Minho keeps trying to get his mind off of it, but it’s no use. Newt is doing this way last minute and it’s freaking him out, not to mention the colossal repercussions of what his poem says. Might as well execute it flawlessly, if it’s the last thing Newt ever says to…

He can’t think like that.

The day of the Poetry Slam, Newt gets out of all his classes to sit in the auditorium with the other contestants. They’re given a briefing on the rules and the order they’ll go in and how the whole thing will work.

At lunch, the show begins. It’s agonizing, watching others and hearing scores. When Newt’s name is called, he thinks he might just puke.

Newt doesn’t check the crowd to see if any of the guys are here.

His hands won’t stop shaking. and he has to take several deep breaths before he actually steps up to the mic. “Hi,” he says, clearing his throat. “This is called ‘Rooftop.’”

Now or never, he supposes. He closes his eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink and then begins with urgency.

“They say the best way to die is falling and I guess that’s pretty true cause I can’t think of a better way to kill myself than falling in love with you.”

He pauses, then shakes his head and laughs. “I swear I had a better first verse, but my   
mind is interwoven with   
rhythm and rhyme so everything I don’t write down gets metaphorically driven away in a big black hearse…”

His gaze falls to his shoes and his voice quiets. “The kind you say I’m not allowed to go away in yet.”

He looks up again, takes in the audience with a sweeping gaze. “And neither are you,   
If what you tell me about fate and life is true   
and, God,” he scoffs, “I hope it is.”

His voice begins rising and each word comes faster. “Collisions and precision and   
I want something more than this!”

He inhales and exhales slowly.

"I use the fire escape to escape the desire for you,  
 Only to find it replaced by the desire to   
toe the edge of the roof.  
 See,” he smiles, just barely, “I don’t think I’d be alive otherwise,   
Cause you make me feel   
weightless,   
Your laugh and your smile,   
And this wasn’t supposed to be a love poem—” He throws his hands up, as if to surrender— “but if it weren’t for you I would’ve been dead for a while now.” He lowers his hands and his gaze.

"I’ve got the hospital bracelets to prove it.”

He closes his eyes and takes a moment to let the statement sink in. When his eyes open again, he searches for his friends in the crowd. There, in the middle— Alby, Thomas, Minho, Gally, all of them. They’re mesmerized. He makes a point not to hold any of their gazes.

“They say it’s hard to romanticize brown eyes—” He starts smiling again at the thought— “but,   
When I see my reflection in them it makes me want to realize   
exactly how you see me,   
Cause being with you is freeing. Better than falling.   
These name tag shackles from the ER seem to   
fall so far   
off of my red wrists when you see me like this—”

He throws his arms out, open, there.

"Barren, barred, waiting for your judgement to see how I’ve faired through the night.” He brings his arms back to his sides and shrugs,“I’m a rat in a maze,   
Fighting through pill-induced haze for the sake of seeing your face   
Clearly.   
Hospital bracelets are made of paper and   
Your words are made of safety-scissors   
And scissors beat paper so keep   
Cutting paper hearts to put on my sleeve.”

He pauses for effect and looks at his friends again. He studies each of their faces for a nanosecond before settling his gaze on Thomas. After all, Tommy inspired the poem.

Newt swallows, not breaking eye contact while delivering the final line:

"I’m not saying that I’ve stopped thinking of dying but   
I’m dying to let you know that I don’t think about it when I’m   
with you.”

He takes a step back from the microphone and mutters ‘thank you’ before turning and rushing off stage. He sticks around long enough to catch the applause and his scores— 9.9, 10, 9.6, 9.7, 10— and then quickly leaves the theater. He doesn’t want to have to face his friends, not after that.

Holy shuck, Newt thinks. I just professed my love for him in front of the entire school.

He slips into the theater wing bathroom and stares at his own reflection for a long time, forearms resting on the sink. No one else is in there, which he takes as a blessing, because he can’t stop trembling and it’s ridiculous. After several long moments of trying to stop his post-adrenaline jitters, the big wooden door starts to open.

Newt straightens up and shoves his hands into his pockets to hide the shaking.

It’s Thomas. Of shucking course.

“H-Hiya, Tommy,” he tries.

Thomas just smiles and shakes his head, then brings Newt in for a tight hug. “We’re all really proud of you. Even Gally seemed a little choked.”

“Shut up, you prat,” Newt mumbles against his shoulder.

“Hey,” Thomas pouts, taking a step back and putting his hands on the Brit’s shoulders. “Don’t call me a prat.” Then the expression is replaced with that same soft smile. “Seriously, Newt. It was breath-taking.”

Newt wants to kiss him. So bad. He leans forward, almost subconsciously, and Thomas actually mirrors his actions. Their lips brush and Newt takes a step closer, returning his arms to their place around the soccer player’s neck, kissing him again. A smile quirks the brunette’s lips. “Is it really that hard to romanticize brown eyes?”

“Everyone always talks about green and blue eyes. You never hear about beautiful brown eyes. And yours are.”

Thomas kisses him again. “You should probably go let the other guys drown you in praise. They’re waiting outside.”

Newt’s stopped shaking, he notices. “I guess. I’m kind of really okay right here.”

Thomas laughs and pulls away from their embrace. “It could definitely smell better.”

“Good that.”

Thomas holds the door open for him, and Newt takes a deep breath before facing his friends.

“All hail!” Fry shouts, bowing exaggeratedly.

After that, everything is a flurry of hugs and high fives, and Newt isn’t entirely sure why. It wasn’t the most well-written thing of all the poems he’d heard so far that day, but it wasn’t the worst. Probably had something to do with the fact that none of the other slintheads would ever have the balls to do something like that.

“One would never think you could be so… literate,” Winston jokes, and Newt gives him a playful shove.

Minho claps him on the back. “C’mon, let’s go back inside. We have to make sure no one steals your spot on the whiteboard.”

The whole group shifts towards the door and starts heading back to their section of seats. Thomas presses his shoulder against Newt’s and stays there for the rest of the Slam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 3 will just be newt's poem uninterrupted


	3. rooftops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt's poem

> They say the best way to die is falling and I guess that’s pretty true cause  
> I can’t think of a better way to kill myself than falling in love with you.
> 
> I swear I had a better first verse, but my mind is interwoven with rhythm and rhyme so everything I don’t write down gets metaphorically driven away in a big black hearse,  
>  The kind you say I’m not allowed to go away in yet.  
>  And neither are you,  
>  If what you tell me about fate and life is true and, God, I hope it is.  
>  Collisions and precision and I want something more than this.
> 
> I use the fire escape to escape the desire for you,  
>  Only to find it replaced by the desire to toe the edge of the roof.
> 
> See,  
>  I don’t think I’d be alive otherwise,  
>  Cause you make me feel weightless,  
>  Your laugh and your smile,  
>  And this wasn’t supposed to be a love poem but if it weren’t for you I would’ve been dead for a while now.
> 
> I’ve got the hospital bracelets to prove it.
> 
> They say it’s hard to romanticize brown eyes but  
>  When I see my reflection in them it makes me want to realize  
>  Exactly how you see me,  
>  Cause being with you is freeing,  
>  Better than falling.
> 
> These name tag shackles from the ER seem to fall so far off of my red wrists when you see me like this:  
>  Barren, barred, waiting for your judgment to see how I’ve faired through the night.  
>  I’m a rat in a maze,  
>  Fighting through pill-induced haze for the sake of seeing your face  
>  Clearly.
> 
> Hospital bracelets are made of paper and  
>  Your words are made of safety-scissors  
>  And scissors beat paper so keep  
>  Cutting paper hearts to put on my sleeve.
> 
> I’m not saying that I’ve stopped thinking of dying but  
>  I’m dying to let you know that I don’t think about it when I’m with you.


End file.
